The Daily Fuss

House Part II: City or Suburbs?

Over lunch this week, a client brought up a familiar subject I love to discuss - the mental and emotional struggle that ensues when a couple faces the decision to move from the city to the suburbs.

This move is generally spurred by the prospect of trying for baby #2 and the inevitable realization that there is just not enough room in the condo for toddler stuff and baby stuff.

The question: Do I upgrade from a condo to a house in the city, or move to a suburb with award-winning public schools and more square footage for my money? SIGH.

I have made my past preference known for the urban over the suburban. My most comprehensive comparison of the two can be found in a post entitled House. I published this post on August 18, 2010, just weeks after moving into our Highland Park home.

My pro-con list is better informed now that we've been here for a few years, so I figured it was as good a time as any to update my comparison.

To recap, the 2010 points in favor of city condo dwelling were as follows:

1) neighborly anonymity

2) can walk almost everywhere

3) ease of internet grocery shopping

4) taxi cab prevalence

5) accessibility of Midway airport

6) common elements are handled by someone else

7) calming familiarity with urban sounds

Points in favor of the suburban home:

1) yard

2) more space for stuff in the house

3) free guest parking

My tune has changed since August 2010. For starters, I love my neighbors, a few of whom in particular have become good friends. We walk plenty in the warmer months and make good use of the Green Bay trail, says the girl who trained for and ran two half marathons this past year.

Thankfully, Peapod has beefed up its delivery schedule to HP. I have also converted back to United as my preferred airline (yay O'Hare) and have American Taxi on speed dial, sometimes last minute. Finally, I faintly hear the train in the distance and it's all the reminder I need that I still live quite close to civilzation as I once knew it.

Additional 2013 points in favor of our suburban situation include:

1) close proximity to the commuter train - a stress-free ride to work

2) Ravinia Outdoor Music Festival and the Chicago Botanic Garden are a mile up the road

3) Anthropologie, Pottery Barn and Paper Source are a half mile down the road along with one-of-a-kind boutiques and restaurants

4) gardening is now my relaxing way to be sustainable - I also have a wormery

5) grilling without having to take an elevator ride to the patio is a bonus - plus our backyard never closes so winter grilling is an option

6) sandboxes and swingsets - we have a little park right in our own yard

7) ability to entertain in our home - we have thrown crazy elaborate birthday parties and even hosted thanksgiving and Christmas this year

8) ability to hang and perpetually admire outdoor lights and Christmas decorations

Finally, one of the most fun things about our suburban dwelling is that it has such potential for greatness. We spend countless hours pouring glasses of wine and poring over Houzz, in an effort to determine exactly how to majorly renovate our house. We'll most likely do a mojor renovation in the next year or two.

If it doesn't happen, it's likely because we've found the perfect "new" house a block or two from here, into which we will move. And the list of things we love about Highland Park will continue to grow.

How about you? Is city living your thing or do you prefer the burbs? Post a comment and share your fuss with us.

Is Life Better In Your Twenties or Thirties?

A friend posted today on one of my favorite topics - which decade is "better" age-wise, the roaring twenties, or stable thirties?

It's a good piece and immediately begs the question "what does better actually mean"?

I will tell you that I am happier and more fulfilled now than I have ever been, but I can't put my finger on exactly why I would refer to this decade as better. 

Evie, the author, points out the seemingly obvious trade offs. As a paraphrased example, feeling truly and desperately alone after a breakup in your twenties versus rarely enjoying five peaceful minutes of alone time in a locked bathroom when you have little kids, for example.

When I think of who I was, personally and professionally, in my twenties, juxtaposed against the person I am now, I have no sense of regret. I always live my life as fully and honestly as I can. I make decisions and I don't look back. If I make a mistake, I convince myself it was a necessary and teachable moment. I move on.

Evie makes a point about wanting to pull back some personal time and it's not lost on me.

My biggest issue with the current decade is that with little kids, there aren't enough hours in the day to do what I want, and so I am forced to compromise with my own wants and needs. I like projects - writing, entertaining, discussing politics and other things that really don't matter for endless hours over too much wine ...

Still, you couldn't pay me to be 24 again. Have you seen Girls? The slightly more realistic Sex and the City type show about twentysomethings in NYC attempting to live the dream?

It's taken me the better part of the last decade to resolve my inner Carrie Bradshaw. I find Girls to be an hilarious expose on why being a woman in her twenties is comically and emotionally BRUTAL - even if you're pretty and popular and smart and thin. Or ... not so much. Lena Dunham is a real-life genius so definitely tune in to season two later this month if you are so inclined.

I love the 36 year-old me more than any other me. I'm not as hot as I used to be (working on that), but I'm smarter, happier and have more money and more responsibilties in all areas of my life, than I did in my twenties.

A lot of pain and growth went into the last decade and I wrote about it so I can remember it all one day. Here are my thoughts: 

On having my first child

On suburban living

On identity crisis

On homeownership

On being the neighborhood hilljack

On minivan-ownership

On baby #2 and the worst anniversary EVER

On treading water

On a new job

I love my life and I sincerely hope I feel exactly the same way when I turn 40 three years and five months from now. And, I hope I'm still enthusiastically inclined to tell you about it.

Resolve

My psyche has suffered for lack of creative and emotional outlet, so I am jumping back into the fray. Happy New Year!

It's been a while. Regrettably so, but given the fact that I took a liberating and fantastic new job in August, I had to commit to that and one other thing.

So, I chose my family.

It's strange. The idea that I probably can't have "it all" as a woman ... or man, for that matter. I am coming to terms with the hard fact that there really aren't enough hours in the day to do what I want, the way I want to do it.

I have always subscribed to the notion that I can get done, whatever I need or want to get done, if I just push myself. I know that if I have a project plan, motivation and enough wine, I can accomplish ANYTHING - like make jewelry or plan parties, for example.

With two kids and a demanding career, I remain steadfast in this regard, but have been rudely introduced to a concept known as "half-assing it". I will tell any new parents, "Hey folks. You can have it all. If you half-ass some of the things all of the time." I approach each day with stoicism, knowing that the result of my efforts will either be victory or "half assed-ness".

Half-assedness snuck up on me.

My husband seems to be able to forgive himself more than I can - if he works too much or isn't particularly available that week. I believe he's unapologetic because he needs to be. He doesn't want to miss out on anything the girls are doing, but he needs to remain detached to be okay with the reality that he will miss out every now and again.

I can't willingly detach and am hard on myself when I have no choice other than to do it - traveling for work or packed days of meetings come to mind.

I travel quite a bit. I spend time with clients. I strategize about my approach to the market on my own time. On the flip side, I do work from home when I'm not with clients. I'm genuinely friends with Mary Poppins (my nanny), and I never miss an important moment for the girls.

Sure, I don't know which classroom is which when I show up for the mid-semester "recital". I don't know the other parents. The teachers ask me who I am. And, some random mom usually corners Mary Poppins with "Really? They look just like you? They aren't yours? REALLY?"

Yes, you fool. They are MINE! And they look just like ME!

In light of all of this, and the fact that I don't like to set myself up for failure, I have the usual New Year's resolutions: 1) Be present for my family; 2) Focus on my job; 3) Save money; 4) Be healthy.

I've been so present for my family (#1) since December 19th that I am gleeful at the return of Mary Poppins, who was visiting her husband's family in Scotland over holiday. I've never been so relieved to immerse myself in my career pursuits (#2) upon her return. I believe I have a taste of what it may feel like for parents of older children when summer vacation comes to a blissful end.

We will subsequently visit #3 and #4 with additional humor and humility as I try a few new tactics that will likely highlight how I have all the wrong kinds of discipline.

Happy New Year!

 

Sweet Life

Last month, after nearly eight years with the same company, I gave my two-weeks notice. You may have seen this coming here. 

I've spent the last three, blissful weeks checking home and garden related things off of my to-do list while enjoying my children, husband and life immensely.

This is an Instagram shot of Mairin and I watching Leighton ride a pony at the Bristol Renaissance Faire last weekend.

In the interest of full disclosure, we have Mary Poppins, our full-time nanny, so I have had the best of all worlds for three solid weeks now. I am far from where I started - a quasi-control freak who lacked the ability to rely on others in earnest.

I could get used to this - having Mary Poppins and no real employer of which to speak.

But, I won't. I start my new job on Monday.

While starting anew can be stressful, I honestly welcome change. I have limited patience for getting set up - new computer, phone, HR stuff, new employee number, 401(k) rollovers and the like, but I'm incredibly excited to begin a new journey.

I will embark on this new personal career adventure with a clean and organized home, brilliant and healthy girls, a happy husband, 28 day meal plan (which I will finally begin posting soon), booming garden, 9 minute mile, a bit of a tan, and a weekend I am about to spend with my college girlfriends and their families.

At this moment, I am completely satisfied.

I am going to sink into this small and perfect space and be as grateful as I can possibly be for as long as I possibly can.

HBO Girls

Wouldn't it be great to be 24 again?

Absolutely NOT.

In a commentary clip preceding HBO's new series Girls, the creator, Lena Dunham describes the age of 24 as (and I'm paraphrasing here) "not old enough to be in a position to get what you want" and "not savvy enough to know what you should want for yourself."

Eleven years senior to Miss Hannah Horvath, the main character, I can sympathize with her journey of good and bad decisions that will likely inspire personal growth along the way.

At 24 I was just out of school, dating the wrong guy, staying out too late, spending all of my money on shoes and ... let's just say I do a decent job of painting that picture here.

My parents didn't need to support me at 24. I had already graduated from law school and was working at a big firm in the city. Unlike others who have panned the show, I am not going to get bogged down in the whole "Generation-Y-bad-economy-excuses, can't-get-a-job, parents-support-me, I'm-entitled thing."

I don't relate with Lena to that degree, but the age of 24 felt vague to me, just the same. I didn't know where I fit into the bigger picture of life. To that end, 24 year-old Hannah isn't much different than 24 year-old Jen.

One of the characters kicks off her exposition with a diatribe about which Sex and the City character she's most like, "some Charlotte, definitely some Carrie, with a little bit of Samantha" from time to time.

I can relate. It took me years to resolve my inner Carrie Bradshaw. I just can't believe 24 year-olds are still identifying with that show. Moreover, those Carrie worshippers will likely have trouble identifying with HBO's Girls. Hannah, Marnie, Jessa and Shoshanna don't embody anything a 24 year-old girl wants to be. In fact, even after a few episodes, the viewers have no handle on the girls' potential.

Girls focuses intently on the opposite and champions the the painful art of "becoming" a woman - something that you can only truly appreciate with (at least) a decade of distance from the reality of your former 24 year-old self.

Life, like any good TV show, is so much fun when you can look back after a few years and say with full sincerity, "Look how far we've come."

If Girls can stick it out for a few seasons, we will review it fondly in retrospect. Good job HBO. I think you have a winner here.

Photograph courtesy of the New York Times.

Piece of Cake

Is it true what they say - I can't have my cake and eat it too?

I haven't applied this to stay-at-home mom's yet, but for a working mom, I can attest to the following:

If I do happen to have access to cake and am faced with the prospect of eating it:

1) I must settle for cake that someone else made (either Mary Poppins or Sweet Mandy B) because I don't have time to bake.

2) That cake will likely end up as a permanent part of my ass. Any time spent at the gym is precious time away from the kids.

3) If I didn't work, I may have to settle for less fancy cake or no cake at all, in which case my ass might be better off. Or, I might find the time to bake it myself, in which case, I would be a super-chunk in no time.

I'm having a tough time today balancing work, life, losing 25 pounds and flawlessly executing my holiday preparations. If I own up to the ridiculousness of this metaphor, and cake = money, then my preference is to just pay someone to make me thinner. Unfortunately, losing baby weight is one thing I cannot outsource and it's pissing me off.

Working moms - how do you find time to lose the baby weight? "Total starvation" is not a helpful answer ... I LOVE FOOD.

PS - I am typing this post halfway through a fifteen-mile ride on my new recumbent bike. This type of multi-tasking is bound to frustrate even the most even-keeled individual.

Identity Crisis Part IV: Resolving My Inner SJP Character

I am not going to go full smelly English major on the topic of the working mom, but I cannot pass up the opportunity to comment on a few gut-reaction observations to the cultural themes present in I Don't Know How She Does It.

I'm a little peevish and I can't put my finger on why that is, exactly. So, I am going to sort it all out in this post with two interrogatories and two narratives:

1) Is This Really Something New? Is the shock and awe spurred on by a working mom who seemingly has her shit together a new thing? It's relatively new to me, so I am truly wondering. It's tough to be committed to my work, and have amazing kids, and be an awesome wife and manage my clients and remember to brush the dog's teeth and throw birthday parties and breastfeed six times a day and pay the bills and sow a garden and procure all necessities for the household and blog and make dinner and put my fantasy team in for the week and take the kids to the zoo, but that's my life. I suspect this type of motherhood has existed for some time. Chicks rule. Duh.

Why this book? Why this movie? Why now?

2) And, why SJP? I have spent the past four years mouring the passing of my inner Carrie Bradshaw. "She was a cheating, self-indulgent bitch," my husband will tell you. He's intent on this because he fancies himself my Aiden, but no matter. I identified with her on a number of levels. His reaction is annoyingly caveman, and I fastidiously defend the iconic character accordingly to this day.

Four years of marriage, two kids, one suburb and one minivan later, I am no longer Carrie Bradshaw worshipping skinny jean girl. I have made my peace with the woman I was a decade ago. I was fun and thin and hot and knew the best restaurants in Chicago and stayed out too late and smoked cigarettes and spent my money on shoes. I also dated my Mr. Big - a cheating, self-indulgent bitch in his own right. There was a tumultuous time and place for all of that. Where I am now is so much blissfully better, and there is no reason to look back at all of that drama with anything other than a very distant fondness of personal growth.

3) I don't know why I would want to see this movie. In I Don't Know How She Does It, Sarah Jessica Parker resurfaces as Kate Reddy, a finance executive desperately trying to balance her job, husband and two kids. It's the classic ultra-thin working mom with high-stakes career (SJP) wins huge, new account while husband (Greg Kinnear) finally lands his dream job, type of story. Throw in the similarly situated best friend (Christina Hendricks) child-hating assistant (Olivia Munn) and adulterous temptation (Pierce Brosnan) and you have the recipe for one movie I don't want to see.

4) Working Mothers Have Varying Degrees of Tolerance. People (mostly women) love to comment on the busy-ness of other women. I'm guessing we have all heard "I don't know how you do it" on several occasions. I think it's something women say as a compliment of sorts. I have come to realize that the number activites a working mom can juggle at any given time is more akin to a fluctuating pain tolerance. Sometimes we're firing on all cylindars. We are amazing. Everything is working. You could tear off a limb and we wouldn't flinch. Other days, a mere sliver is enough to shut down the works - there is no food in the fridge, no clean underpants, the dog peed on the carpet and the one bill not on autopay is late.

5) I Know How I Do It. There are no secrets to maintaining a successful life as a working mom, and no measure of that success other than personal happiness and satisfaction. I am happily satisfied, so I am doing well by my standard.

How does this working mom do it? With help, of course. I outsource a few things and increase efficiencies wherever possible:

I have a full-time nanny, who also handles laundry duties. I have a cleaning lady. I have my hair professionally cut and colored. I keep my nails short. I have some groceries delivered. I work from home. I do 90% of my shopping online. Our bills (wherever possible) are on autopay. I send our taxes (and a giant stack of papers) to the accountant. I make big batches of soup, lasagna etc. and freeze portions in containers so there is always something to eat in a pinch. We watch all tv shows after 8pm on the DVR and skip commercials. I blog at night. My family members watch the girls from time to time so Ryan and I can do grown-up stuff.

Under this scheme, I pick up enough extra time to teach my children to be intelligent and compassionate citizens, make party invitations, take the car to the shop, share a glass of wine with my husband, pick and preserve tomatoes, balance the checkbooks, call the roofer and spend a bit of time here and there with friends. I realize not everyone can afford some of the help listed above, but without the help, I couldn't keep my job and without my job, I couldn't afford the help. That, in and of itself is a balancing act.

Putting my obvious reservations aside, I will eventually see this movie and compare myself to Kate Reddy and say "Oh yeah right - that would never happen in real life," in much the same way I pick apart every objection made during trial on Law and Order. And, I will identify with Kate in a way that will cost me another four years of reconciliation with my inner self.

Whelmed

Sometimes it's all about keeping your head above water.

Such was the last two months of my life. I had a major piece of writing due for an industry publication (for my work job) and it's finally done. Completo-finito.

I had mastitis twice in as many weeks and have been super busy with clients.

Ryan's been traveling for a new role he's taken on at work and so it became a struggle for me to so much as brush my teeth on days I didn't have meetings toward the end of my writing ordeal.

The good news is, I've gone from being entirely overwhelmed to just plain old whelmed. Of course, I know "whelmed" isn't a real word, but, I really think it should be. Mostly because "whelmed" is exactly how I feel.

"Whelmed" s the space I'm in when I feel as though I've just opened my eyes for the first time in weeks and allowed myself to see the disaster my house has become. It's not a huge mess disaster, but a disorganization type of disaster. The kind of mess I didn't know I had until I tried to remember the last time I bathed the girls or the dog ... and I can't come up with anything concrete.

I don't know where anything is. Kids' clothes, shoes, sunblock, sunglasses, barbies, teethers, ponytail holders, diapers, mish mashes, chapsticks, loose change and sand fill every every stroller, bag and pocket we own. The cars are trashed and the minivan has a dent from a recent and tragic parking ramp incident in the city.

And, I'm so exhausted, I barely have a care to speedily square away the wreckage. I guess I'd rather spend my spare moments writing about it than cleaning it up.

 Whelmed. There you have it.

 

Anniversorry Part III: Oh Yeah, We Trashed My Parents House in Less Than 24 Hours

I can't discuss our fourth anniversary without mentioning the fact that my parents' house needed professional cleaning from our stay that lasted roughly one day.

Before we left the girls with my parents, we poured ourselves glasses of wine. Ryan set his on the tea table near the couch where Mairin lay. I took off my jacket to change her, and in pulling off my right sleeve, knocked the glass.

It tipped over and spilled on the carpet. I grabbed paper towel to dab, dab, dab and figured the glass must have been nearly empty, as there was far less damage than I feared.

There was one ugly spot several spatter marks, so I headed to the basement to retrieve the Oxy Clean.

SIDEBAR: You should know that I spill a beverage (usually red wine) EVERY SINGLE TIME I visit my parents. It's ridiculous and I feel awful, but it happens and I have no clue why. I spill quite frequently at home too, but I destroy my parents' house more than any other place. And so, this incident did not alarm me in the least.

I was alarmed when I saw the trail of wine dribbles through the kitchen, leading past the powder room, to and up the stairs. What the Fuss?

I yelled up to my dad, "Dad, is your wine glass cracked?" 

"No. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

There were little red drips everywhere and NO FOOTPRINTS. I cleaned up quickly and surprisingly (probably because it was cloudy at that very moment) no one seemed to notice.

We finished our wine, grabbed our bags and kissed our girls goodbye ... Leighton, Mairin and Luella. I bent down to kiss Lue and my lips met a stiff and matted little dog. What?

Why was my teensy pup trembling and why was she rocking bangs like a Milwaukee-bred seventh-grader circa 1989?

Ryan was laughing and wheezing so hard he could hardly get the words out, and it dawned on me (almost as quickly) that our beloved little four-pound Yorkie was the recipient of the contents of that tumbled wine glass.

She stood behind me (as per usual) like a little shadow, when I spilled. And, on a not-so-humorous note, she tracked no less than a billion droplets of vino all about the house.

My mom was rightfully peeved. Fortunately, she had already consumed her glass of wine, which kept her commentary about how "Lue pees all over the house so what's a little wine added to the mix" to a minimum while we skated out the door.

Once we left, Grandpa entertained Leighton while Grandma spent nine, desperate hours trying to feed Mairin. Toys,  bottles, burp cloths, blankets and spitup clothes were surely strewn about until the morning.

The evidence was all but gone when we arrived in the AM. We sat about, marveling at the previous night's events, enjoying coffee and breakfast. Mairin gorged herself on boobie dish to make up for her hunger strike, and we crafted details surrounding Luella's wine-soaked misfortune.

We giggled and snort-laughed and as I put Marinka Dinka over my shoulder for a burp, she launched the entire meal on and over my shoulder into every nook and cranny of the wingback chair, my top, pants and bra. We all sprung into action - handing off baby, pulling out cushions, scrambling for spitty rags, tearing off clothing. It was horrifically silly.

To top it off, I stepped in a puddle of Lue pee on my way to toss my spitty soaked clothes in the laundry while wearing only my underpants and Ryan's overcoat.

Mayhem is the only way to describe it. Me screaming, Ryan laughing, my mom mad at Ryan for laughing, my dad scolding my mom for being mad at Ryan for laughing because "this is what happens when you have dogs and kids" and Leighton seizing the opportunity to stand in the corner and poop her pants without consequence because "pooping on the potty makes me fer-us-ter-a-terd."

Or should I say fer-us-ter-a-turd?

We will let the dust settle before dropping the girls at my parents' house again for a night out. And, someday we will look back on this and laugh. And, oh yeah, today is that day.

Sorry mom.

Anniversorry Part II: Imposters

Given the anticipation created by planning our anniversary celebration, it should not come as a surprise that the events of the evening did NOT transpire as intended.

We arrived at the hotel at 2pm for an early check in. There is nothing better than a toddler and infant-free nap in a freshly cleaned, fancy hotel room. So we ordered lunch up to our lair, enjoyed a Sprecher Amber and Usingers sausage sticks and snoozed. Hard.

In readying for dinner, Ryan tested the rain shower ... complete with translucent glass. Interesting.

Here is a stock photo from the hotel. This shower leaves little to the imagination. One can only hope there are other accommodations for individuals staying with friends or small children or Amish folk.

Honestly, I felt that at this point we were in over our heads - kidding ourselves that we (the proud parents of two teeny tots) could pull off a normal romantic moment or several without laughing at some point, or feeling like a couple of imposters.

Once we were primped and proper, cousin Pete and his fiancee Leah met us for pre-dinner cocktails. They live in Milwaukee, we haven't seen them for a spell and we fully intended to use this time to formally ask them to be Mairin's Godparents. We enjoyed a bottle of wine in our room, then a beer at the hotel bar. And, once my mom called, we forgot to ask them anything.

"Mairin hasn't eaten since you left. I've tried several different bottles, different nipples, different batches of frozen breastmilk and even formula. No dice."

Not wanting to: a) Appear overly concerned; b) Foreshadow the fact that this may ruin the whole night; or c) Fail our plan, I told her to give Mairin Tylenol and cross her fingers.

Ryan was jumpy and sweaty and seemingly paranoid through cocktails and the call from my mom didn't help. We hopped a cab to dinner and the pavlovian effect usually created by the ride to Bacchus was nearly impossible to attain.

Other than spying John Malan (local meteorologist since childhood) at the bar, the twenty minute wait for our table was spent desperately trying NOT to talk about Mairin's appetite over our own. Ryan's jumpiness overpowered the voice of reason in my head that should have assured me both girls would be just fine for the evening.

"I wonder why she's not eating."

"Maybe she's eating now."

"I'm sure everything is fine. This meal is going to be awesome."

"I can't wait."

"Me either."

"Too bad Mairin's not eating her dinner."

"I know, right? It's so strange. Poor baby."

"I think I want the filet."

"Me too."

Tick. Tick. Tick. Drink. Drink. Drink.

Our collective worry must have accelerated our collective metabolic rate because at this point in the evening we had each had two beers and three glasses of wine.

We were seated at our corner table and ordered another glass of wine, small plates and our entrees. I ordered the lobster and Ryan ordered the filet. Of course, there was much discussion surrounding menu choices and how "I will order last" and "what two items can we split" and Ryan doesn't think lobster is "worth it" and I'm all "you have to be joking" and blah blah blah.

"I wonder if Mairin is eating yet," we mused over another glass of wine.

By the time my mom called again, Ryan was still sweaty, I was drunk and our entrees had yet to arrive. Service on this particularly important Saturday was sssloooow - overbooked like a United flight out of O'Hare.

By the time we paid the bill and talked to my mom AGAIN about how Mairin now hadn't eaten in eight hours, we decided that we would take a cab back to my parents' house, feed stubborn Mairin and come back.

By the time we made it back to the hotel, we packed our bags and called the valet to bring the car around.

I looked ridiculous waiting for the car having already changed into my yoga pants and other such Lulu Lemon/Athleta wear. I felt my fraud exposed as the valet held the minivan door for me and I hopped inside - Patagonia bag on my shoulder, bronze stilletos in hand - while hipsters and aging bikers filed into the hotel in appropriate attire for a night out. I tried to pretend we enjoyed a lovely stay (of more than a few hours) and were excited to be on our way home, but the absurdity of it all was apparent.

We were ten blocks out when my mom called yet again to report that, "Mairin is finally eating. She was stubborn and wants her mom, but I finally won. Please go back to the hotel. My God, you sound trashed."

Ryan and I argued for two minutes about what to do and blamed each other for getting so worked up. He told me he was worried because this normally wouldn't have freaked me out and I blamed my freaking out on his profuse perspiration and irritability. It's at this point that he admitted to taking TWO 24-hour Claritin because he didn't want his allergies to "ruin our evening".

Ah well, his intentions were pure.

We went back to the hotel at 11pm, gave our keys to the same valet who helped me out of the car moments earlier, took the gorgeous elevator straight up and went to bed ... defeated.

Dinner at a fabulously slow restaurant - $250. Unsullied hotel room - $400. White gold and diamond locket given by husband as a wedding gift left on the nightstand and "not recovered" by housekeeping - $3150.

Jen and Ryan's fourth anniversary memories - PRICELESS.

Anniversorry Part I: The Game Plan

We were married only four years ago, yet we managed to pack quite a bit of drama into the last fourteen hundred and sixty days.

The blessed nuptials occurred on May 12, 2007.  Shortly thereafter, we closed on the condo, had a miscarriage, renovated the condo, had a baby, bought a house, renovated the house, and had another baby.

No wonder we feel like, "Hey we had Mairin three months ago and have done NOTHING since." Unless you count the scramble to prepare for Leighton's birthday party, the recent slacking is out of character.

Every anniversary, we pull out our wedding photos and discuss the fact that we had the GREATEST WEDDING EVER with nauseating detail. Then we relive our honeymoon in Hawaii and make the same wild claims that it kicked so much ass and we'll NEVER EVER dare take such an extravagant vacation again. By the second glass of wine, it's as if we're arguing with another imaginary couple about who's event was better.

I love anniversaries. SIGH.

This year, we thought it would be brilliant to commemorate another year of wedded bliss by leaving the girls with my parents to spend a romantic evening in downtown Milwaukee. It's a simple plan and, given the fact that Leighton loves her grandparents and Mairin is as pleasant as a baby could be, it should go off without a hitch.

We made a reservation at Bacchus, the restaurant where (after a meal that could only be described as gastronomical perfection) we decided that our rehearsal dinner meal must concocted by their James Beard award-winning executive chef. We have been there since - the food just as amazing and the service still impeccable. Why not play it again?

Ryan booked a room for us at the Iron Horse hotel. It's newish, niche and amazing. The smell of leather and aftershave meets you at the door of this boutique beauty. Deliberately exposed steel, brick and timber are glamorously paired with animal hide, Edison bulbs and Harley paraphenalia.

Here are a smattering of shots. We stayed in a corner suite with the layout in the last picture, which really doesn't do the room justice. I give it two Fussworthy thumbs up.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We were both so looking forward to our weekend. Work has been stressful, kids add their own brand of busy to the mix, and we needed a night to hang out and reconnect. This was a fancy little plan we could hatch - staying close enough to our babies, but far enough away to focus on each other AND get an uninterrupted night's sleep.

I can't frame up this game plan without mentioning the expectation surrounding the evening in question. Once I had kids, I started to see myself a certain way and I'm not exactly talking about a sexy, independent type-way. I grew accustomed to being covered in spitup, pulling foreign objects from the toilet and uttering the words "poop" or "boobs" several times each day. 

That said, it can be fun to don the hot, bronze, metallic, textured-silk skirt and ruched black fine-wool top that finally fits post-baby and hit the town as my alter ego with my wonderful, handsome husband ... otherwise known as "Daddy".

Bracket Hopping

Today is my 35th birthday. Ryan and the girls gave me a new iPad this morning, with which I am immediately obsessed.

In the process of frantically downloading tens, if not hundreds, of dollars worth of new apps, I must register my iPad with iTunes.

Name, email address, occupation, primary use, age of primary user ... blah blah blah.

Well, damn it if turning thirty-five doesn't kick me to a whole new marketing demographic. I've been in the 25-34 group for so long.

35-44?

Really?

At least I'm the youngest in my class again.

Mee-Nee-Ban

You may recall the consternation caused by our family's need for a new car that fits a tall dad, picky mom and two tiny chicks in car seats. 

I was so irritated by the whole, preliminary, car shopping ordeal that I went into denial about it and was such a waddling whiner at every dealership we entered that I left it to Ryan to boil the options down to two before I got involved.

He actually banned me from joining him at one point - no lie.

Ryan was online, every night, checking specs and consumer reports and message boards and blogs, desperately wanting to avoid the minivan at all costs.

When he came to me with the inevitable "Odyssey-or-Sienna" final decision, I didn't say "told-you-so". I just said, "I'm fine with either one." Admittedly, on the inside, it was more of a "WOO HOO! We're gittin' a minivan." Or, as Leighton calls it, her "Mee-Nee-Ban." It's like she's put a cute little Cuban spin on it.

Only the minivan can do what this family needs a vehicle to do. We need sliding side doors, room for two car seats (or five if need be), third row, remote ignition, back up camera, USB hookup, blue tooth, a zillion airbags, latch systems, room for luggage, comfy ride with lots of space. Nothing else made the cut.

So, we went with the 2011 Honda Odyssey. It looked a little odd from the outside, at first, and there's a little less room in the interior than the Sienna, but it's super slick, handles like a car and I wouldn't trade it for the world. I will say that I get passed more frequently in the minivan - regardless of my speed. I guess other drivers (mostly impatient city-folk) just figure I'm a dumb-ass minivan driver and do their best to stay away from me. Admittedly, that had always been my feeling.

I'm a whiz with the key remote - I have the car running with doors opening as I approach my transport. I can get Lei in and out quickly and have even less of an issue going to the grocery store because I get to play with the back hatch, automatic opener for the bag-loader guys at Sunset.

The only thing we decided to skip was the entertainment package. I know. You're thinking "WHAT? Are you crazy?" We try not to let Lei watch too much TV, but she does like movies. And it's annoying enough that she knows the Annie soundtrack is on the iPod Touch in the car. She's like a little dictator. I'll be damned if she's going to watch Annie or Toy Story 3 or anything else every time we get in the car. I'd rather talk to her or play her Music Together tunes.

If we need movies for a long road-trip, we'll just hang an iPad off the back of my seat for little Lei.  That way, we can remove it when we're done and have it on reserve for special occasions ONLY. I know it seems like the most obvious feature for kids, but we felt differently about it at the end of the day - that it would do more harm than good to include it.

So there you have it - one more way we have slipped further into suburbia. However, this slip was a good one and didn't take much adjustment on my part. The only problem is that now, I look positively drunk trying to back the Jeep out of our driveway without a backup cam. Oh well. If you see me, just mutter under your breath (dumb-ass minivan driver). I won't be offended at all.

Identity Crisis Part III: How Did I Get Here?

So I had a delusional moment the other day, ascending our stairs (to pee for what seemed like the billionth time that day because we still haven't installed the toilet in the half-renovated, half-bath on the main floor) in what felt like someone else's house.

Why so much peeing, you ask? Well ... because I stepped away from The Daily Fuss for two months to get my ducks in a row, I haven't been able to drop daily reminders to all of you that our hot new single "Little Sis" is due to drop on Monday the 31st. Unfortunately, it seems that since Leighton was born during the NCAA Championships that Little Sis would like to wait for the Superbowl to make her debut. Bummer.

So, I'm coming up the stairs thinking to myself, "How did I get here again?" It was an odd space in between a failure to remember who dropped me off at this person's home, and the manner in which the Plinko chip bounced down the board of life to make me the happily married, suburban mother of two with a mortgage and a minivan (oh hell yes - we will address this properly tomorrow) and a little doggie and tenants in my beloved condo and laundry in the dryer and we're out of milk and taxes are due soon and I need to fill out my paperwork for maternity leave and we need more salt for the driveway and is Parenthood on tonight and ... you see where I'm going with this.

It didn't take long to go from the girl-about-town singleton to the current iteration of me. We married in May 2007, bought the condo, had a baby, bought a house in the suburbs and are having another baby this week. What can I say? "Holy Shit" pretty much sums it up.

There have been a few recent moments of pause along the way ... here, here and here to be specific. And, if I hadn't bothered to write about them, I may not have recalled ceratin aspects of my metamorphasis.

The good news is that both Ryan and I are the type of people who think just long and carefully enough about the decisions we make (major ones included) without making ourselves ill over deliberation. We pick our pony and never look back. We trust that we made a good choice and work through whatever that brings. However, that type of decision-making has lead to rapid change in a short period of time no matter the super-sound logic involved.

Don't worry, I'm not going Revolutionary Road on you in ANY way. I'm a happy girl, I just don't recognize myself sometimes. Reconciling who I fancy myself to be and who I really am is a daily download - like a JenMom software patch. It takes effort, but it's not exhausting. I fully expect that the overwhelming gratification, part and parcel to leading a happy life, includes perpetual bouts of alternating hard work and hard play. That's what makes it interesing in my overly energetic opinion.

Stay tuned this week and the next and the next and the next ... for more of the hard work phase once Little Sis joins our squad. And thanks for sticking with me while I took some time to get my act together. Much appreciated.

Ryan is flushing his freshly installed, half-bath toiled as I type these very words. I could not love him more. My hero!

Identity Crisis Part II: Work Life Balance

We closed on our suburban home last week. I measured and planned, priced materials and found subcontractors for some initial home renovations, found renters for the condo in the city, pushed Leighton seven thousand times on her new swing, hatched a few landscaping plans and ...

... oh yeah - I did all of that in my spare time. I worked all week - Saturday too.

Spare time? What the hell is that? I meant to say that I did everything I mentioned in lieu of getting the requisite amount of sleep a human needs to remain sane and not age exponentially faster than expected.

I am out of whack. Fat. Chakras need balancing. I'm so tired. Writing promotes my balance and I haven't done much of it lately. Recommitting.

Lately, my discussions with a close friend have turned to the subject of work life balance and the ways in which moms define and achieve this. I believe that whether or not a mother achieves work life balance depends ENTIRELY on how she defines it.

At this point in my mom career, I don't see how it's possible to balance work and life. Work eats up 75% of my awake time, Leighton gets 75% of my energy, friends and family earn 25% of my effort and friends laundry, Dr. appointments, travel, changing batteries and light bulbs, moving, eating and television get the other 25%.

I'm working at 200% efficiency. Sweet. Sweet, and impossible to maintain without cogs popping and springs flying out of my head.

Moreover, I believe that work life balance (by any definition) ABSOLUTELY CANNOT exist when you have very small children. Properly cultivating a tiny human being takes a most enormous direction of effort which inevitably spurs the half-assing of nearly every other task on the list.

This doesn't just apply to "working" moms. I say "working" because we're all doing the work. However, I have to imagine that moms who stay home may yearn for the interaction of the workplace or the self-fulfillment that is part and parcel to a career. The balance is simply skewed in the other direction. When you wear a suit all day, you long for anything with an elastic waist. When you're covered in snot and food all day, you long for a quiet moment in your office. I work from home. I feel both sides throughout the course of any given week.

I may be wrong, but I'm operating under the assumption that the balance will tip in mom's favor once the littlest one heads off to school. I am clinging to this truth, however illusory. Please let me be right.

Please.

How do you work toward your balance? Are you getting there? Do you do your work with the kids or in an office? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.